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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509312">the lord said go to the devil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/putanauhere/pseuds/putanauhere'>putanauhere</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Minor Violence, Pre-Season/Series 02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:00:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/putanauhere/pseuds/putanauhere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s 1962, which has never been a real year to him, just a number you’d see written down on paper, history long since tucked away in a book, and while he realistically knows everything that happened before he was alive to take notice is actually still real and not some fever dream the world’s population has agreed to play along with, it still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Luther tries to remember quickly what day of the week it is - it’s not Thursday, which is the day he reserves for sheer existential dread, the kind of deep seated fear that has him thinking he died when the Moon struck Earth and he’s now stuck in some kind of purgatory or some kind of hell. On Thursdays, he thinks this place was designed to torture him and it just isn’t working because he’s built up a hell of an immunity, 30-plus years at the hands of his father’s daily doses, as well as several of his own. </i>
</p>
<p><i>It’s Friday. Luther picks at the bread stuck in his teeth with the toothpick that speared his sandwich, and thinks to himself, </i>TGIF.<br/> </p>
<p>[Or Luther becomes Jack Ruby’s Number One.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the lord said go to the devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>herein lies my deeply sad thoughts about luther's deeply sad situation in dallas that for some reason was not portrayed in the show as deeply sad as i wanted it to be. this is a story about someone broken breaking even further. there is a one sentence mention of assault, luther being luther about his body and worth, and scenes of the underground fighting ring, but nothing considered graphic depictions of violence.</p>
<p>thanks as always to amy, my number one enabler. title from sinnerman.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Luther gets an extra two dollars from the deli for finishing up a day early, a bonus Mrs. Delancey says for saving them from another day of pounding headaches to match the pounding of his hammer. He’s grateful, even if he knows they know he’s just going to give it right back to them, to splurge on a whole turkey sandwich instead of just half of one before pocketing the change for his savings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He eats his whole turkey sandwich and complimentary pickle spear up on the newly shingled roof, which groans under his weight as he sits but holds firm. Good enough. Mr. and Mrs. Delancey won’t ever get up to the roof on their own to inspect the job, to get to know that size and confidence are not a match for skill, but he figures by the time they realize he’s maybe probably almost certainly swindled them, he’ll have left town. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow he has convinced himself the last three weeks that a bus ticket was worth more than a consistent roof over his head because there’s a persistent, persuasive voice in the back of his mind that tells him he needs to leave. The voice tells him he doesn’t belong here, swipes at his feet with a broom as it says </span>
  <em>
    <span>shoo, shoo, shoo</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he’s an unwanted pest to get him started running fast enough he’ll never stop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nowhere to run to, he feels no burning need to go home. There is no Academy, and the city he grew up defending owes him nothing now. He has no home, he hasn’t had one in years, maybe not ever, only places he’s slept in anticipation for the next mission, places that were never his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther leans back along the slant of the roof, his head not quite resting down with the bulk of his back. He scowls over at the Moon, its audacity to show full and white in the waning light of day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We choose to go to the Moon</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Kennedy said just last week, and Luther hears whispers of it echoing out around him wherever he goes, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell them it’s overrated. From the majesty of space, Earth looks just as impossible as it does from its surface. Thousands of people die every day and it doesn’t make a drop of difference to the universe. All attempts to save lives, from simple acts to grand plans, just delay the inevitable. No matter what, time moves forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or backward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s 1962, which has never been a real year to him, just a number you’d see written down on paper, history long since tucked away in a book, and while he realistically knows everything that happened before he was alive to take notice is actually still real and not some fever dream the world’s population has agreed to play along with, it still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther tries to remember quickly what day of the week it is - it’s not Thursday, which is the day he reserves for sheer existential dread, the kind of deep seated fear that has him thinking he died when the Moon struck Earth and he’s now stuck in some kind of purgatory or some kind of hell. On Thursdays, he thinks this place was designed to torture him and it just isn’t working because he’s built up a hell of an immunity, 30-plus years at the hands of his father’s daily doses, as well as several of his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s Friday. Luther picks at the bread stuck in his teeth with the toothpick that speared his sandwich, and thinks to himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>TGIF.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Carousel Club is one of the better spots in town. It oozes excess out of its pores, from the music floating out of the door, to the champagne spilled in the streets, to the half-eaten meals scraped off of plates straight into the trash. Days old vegetables are still better than most kinds of space food, and Luther is all too aware of the required calorie intake to keep his monster of a body functioning. In any other circumstance, he could probably walk through the club, cleaning plates and finishing drinks, but he hasn’t been able to slip in and out of a place unnoticed since he was changed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As it is, he crouches in the alley shadows on Tuesday nights, less likely to get caught on slower days, he realizes, and waits for the next bag of trash to be hauled out to the dumpster. He hears the first startled shriek where the alley meets the street, and instead of tensing to spring into action, Luther swallows down his instincts. He closes his eyes and minds his business. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s spent his whole life thinking it was his duty to intervene, being commanded to play the hero, and there has never been any damn reason to play along. He won’t be a pawn in somebody else’s game, not when he can’t see their endgame. He’s spent weeks picking through each of his missions, trying to piece together the bigger picture, to find for himself the greater good that he helped sustain, but there’s nothing. Nothing but black, gnarled creatures of doubt in his mind chirping their questions - </span>
  <em>
    <span>was Dad really trying to save the world, or was he just interested in playing God? Did you ever kill an innocent man, just because you weren’t shown the whole board? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She screams again and Luther opens his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, and goes to do something about the guy with his arms wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her fur coat up, and telling her she’s asking for it with those long bare legs. This is the whole board.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Luther says, his voice rough with disuse, barely heard over the noise they’re making. He doesn’t talk much, not since he shouted himself hoarse calling Allison’s name when he landed here, but silence hasn’t ever bothered him. He clears his throat and steps closer. “Let her go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy doesn’t, naturally - he twists, still with his hands firmly clutched around her. His eyes catch on Luther’s chest, then roll up to his face. “Not your fuckin’ business, pal, you move along,” he snaps, but his eyes widened when he got a look at Luther and his voice has a light tremor running through it. So Luther picks him up by the shirt collar and yanks him off the ground, the guy startling so much he lets the girl go. She books it, Luther doesn’t even bother to watch as she goes, and he sets the guy back down in the opposite direction from where she ran. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should go home now,” Luther tells him, and for that he gets decked in the face. The guy telegraphs it from a mile away and his whiskey-drained muscles barely make an impact against Luther’s jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy rallies, shaking out his fist before raising them both up. “You think you’re tough, huh? I eat guys like you for breakfast. You’re dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther frowns at him. He’s heard a lot of huffing and puffing from bad guys over the years, the kind of pompous talk that seems more designed to convince the speaker than Luther that they’re capable of the horrors they’re professing. This is some of the more uninspired sort Luther’s come up against, and he has no interest in lobbing a hero’s clapback at him. That vigilante nonsense was always more Diego’s speed, and look where that got him. Probably to the same kind of nowhere Luther’s gone to. “I don’t wanna hurt you, just go.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He throws a few more useless punches at Luther that are easily dodged or deflected, and Luther has half a mind to just walk away, forget the meal he planned tonight so this fly of a man stopped buzzing around him. But then the guy takes out a knife, which he slashes at Luther, who jerks back in time that his shirt bears the brunt of the attack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther purses his lips. “This is my only shirt.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy grins, snakelike, hunching forward into a striking position with extreme drunken confidence. “Ruby’s men always think they’re fuckin’ un-vincible, but you tell your boss this is gonna be Johnny Hardcastle’s street, and we’re gonna do whatever we like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Luther realizes,</span>
  <em>
    <span> this must be a turf war thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s not interested in that, so he grabs hold of the guy’s wrist and breaks it with a quick snap, the knife dropping swiftly out of his hand and clattering on the pavement. Over the sounds of his pained screaming, Luther tells him, “I’m going to knock you out, but I gave you fair warning, so this is your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds the guy tight, applying the perfect amount of pressure to toe that fine line between knocking him out and killing him. His grip falters for a second, flashing back weeks to the last time he’d done this, to how he’d held Vanya sobbing in his arms until she shouted and set the house rumbling. He’d told himself he was doing what he needed to do, that the price was worth paying, instead of trying to find some way to help her. Because that’s what Dad had always told him to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther’s arms jerk and weaken at the thought, but the drunk is already falling to his knees unconscious, his head hitting the sidewalk with a loud crack that sickens rather than pleases Luther. No matter who he is, what he is, where he is - it always comes back to this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” says a voice behind Luther.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther tenses, his fingers clenching back into fists as he turns to face a new man, in a loose suit with a cigarette hanging out of one side of his mouth. He doesn’t look angry, rather delighted, his eyes bouncing from the guy on the ground back up to Luther. Alongside three other men in suits, the girl stands behind him, one hand clutching at her coat, the other wiping at her eyes where her mascara had run. Luther untenses just a little seeing her, reading the scene quickly. The way they gather around the guy in front, he must be the boss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Isaacs, Slovi,” the boss says, gesturing for two of his men to move. Isaacs and Slovi do so, skirting carefully around Luther until they’re at either side of the unconscious man on the ground, squatting to haul him up. Luther doesn’t watch where they take him, keeps his eyes on the boss as he saunters up toward Luther. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Jack Ruby,” he says. His name must get around town because it’s not the first time Luther has heard it. “This is my club. And this is Autumn, she’s one of my girls. She told me you took care of her.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther shrugs, eyeing more of the suited up men as they pour out of the club behind Ruby. They nearly number too many of them to take all at once, but so far he doesn’t seem to be perceived as a threat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s your name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luther,” he answers, then, after a pause, “Hargreeves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ruby nods, no trace of fuzzy recognition on his face, no faded memories of reading about the Umbrella Academy in the paper to share. Instead, he sticks his hand out and Luther slowly reaches to catch it and shake as gently as he can. Ruby’s eyes flicker down to their clasped hands, no doubt taking in the way Luther’s hand dwarfs his own. Luther pulls back, burying his hand in his pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m pleased to meet you, Luther. Real pleased. You hungry? I figure I owe you a steak dinner after what you’ve done for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther opens his mouth to argue, but can’t find the words. It could be days or weeks since that whole turkey sandwich, he doesn’t know - time passes differently on the street. So he nods and follows Ruby into the club.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The steak is butter-soaked, medium rare, and the best thing Luther has tasted in his life. Ruby makes it himself, comfortable working around the club’s kitchen, and the other cooks don’t pay him any mind - though if it’s because Ruby does this kind of thing all the time or if they’re scared to step in the way of their boss, Luther doesn’t know. Nor does he care. He eats his steak and potatoes as slowly and carefully as he can, savoring each bite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack Ruby talks a lot, in a way that reminds Luther of Five, in sharp, deliberately crafted monologues that are streaked with nostalgia, only it’s not nostalgia in 1962. He talks like an old timey gangster because he is one. Luther keeps his mouth stuffed as he goes so that when the pauses come - as few and far between as they are - all he has to do is nod his head to jump start Ruby going again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Ruby catches his attention, leaning forward on the metal counter that separates them, his hands lacing together in front of him as he scrutinizes Luther. “I never seen anything like that in my life. You really got something special.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther frowns at him, mouth full. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I bounce my own club, you know, but these days I’m busier and busier on the floor, glad-handing and the like, keeping the patrons happy. I could use someone at the door. Someone like you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther swallows hard, and answers around the rest of the food in his mouth, “To do what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To take care of things,” he says with enough weight that Luther hears the true meaning underneath it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to hurt anyone. That’s not - I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got a big dick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther falters. “Ah - um - well - I’d say it’s. Proportional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just need you to swing it. I got all sorts in this club, but most of them are just bullshitting their way through it. Throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what I’ll let stick. And I don’t let nothing stick in this club, you understand me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so,” Luther says. It seems easy enough, he’s more than equipped to put a stop to a food fight if he sees one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The best bouncers, they don’t throw their fists. They let their size do the talking for them. And your arms, kid, they speak volumes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther hunches down even further in his seat, though there is literally no way to make himself smaller. He can’t stand to be seen, and he doesn’t understand why Ruby looks at him like he likes what he sees when nobody has ever done that. Not even Dad did, and this was his design.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think?” Ruby asks. Luther shrugs and nods, the kind of affirming yet non-committal action of someone who doesn’t really have a choice in the matter anyway. Only Ruby repeats it, “Luther, I’m asking you what you think.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Luther thinks about it. It’s a big game board, lots of moving pieces, an infinite number of outcomes, and suddenly the game looks too complicated to play. It should be easy. He’s never been homeless before, never without a job, and he’s fucking terrible at it - all the Academy prepared him to do was be big, strong, and the kind of stupid that masquerades as in charge. He’s got no identification, no job history, no birth certificate, no real way to make his new life easier, or his hell a little more comfortable. But he could. He could grow that bus ticket fund large enough that he can’t keep the bills tucked in his shoes anymore. He could eat every day, get a roof over his head. And it’s just because somebody, for the first time in his life, is asking him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luther says. “Sounds good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On a Thursday, Mr. Ruby gets Luther a room at the Plano Street Boarding House for Solitary Men. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Reasonable rates,” Mr. Ruby tells him, but Luther doesn’t know how much, on account of Mr. Ruby’s arrangement to have part of his paycheck sent directly to the boarding house, which is very thoughtful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room isn’t much bigger than the one that he had at the Academy or the Moon, so he’s comfortable there. Dad sure loved his shit, filled his house with books and bits and bobs - things to look at but never touch, and Luther never saw much need for all of that. The best kind of soldier could leave everything behind because he had nothing to leave behind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long for Luther to settle into a routine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Solitary sounds like a challenge rather than a perk, and he comes to the realization that he doesn’t have to isolate until he’s deployed for his next mission. He can just go to the Carousel closer to opening to find the other men who work for Mr. Ruby in varying capacities that are never explained to Luther, or earlier in the day for his meals to find Mr. Ruby, always Mr. Ruby, who’s there from sun up to sun up like he lives there - and maybe he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After his first paycheck, Luther finds a grey sweat suit at a thrift shop that’s big enough for him and starts up an early morning run. He finds out quickly it’s too early in history for Rocky jokes once his first “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yo Adrian!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” is met with bewildered stares, and learns that the neighborhood kids love to race him on their bikes even if he trounces them every single time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long for Luther to realize there’s more to the Carousel Club than a burlesque. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are secret rooms for the right prices. Money changes hands for bags and briefcases, but all Luther has to do is make sure the money gets in the door okay because it doesn’t matter what happens to the bags or briefcases once they leave the Carousel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s good at looking the other way - it’s nice to stop overanalyzing for once, nice to free himself from a crusade. There’s no doom clock ticking in the background. He’s just an honest man, earning an honest living. And Mr. Ruby is good to him, still makes him dinner three times a week, claps him on the back as he laughs at Luther’s jokes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Loyalty is the mark of a man. You serve? I bet you did, I bet you mowed ‘em all down,” Mr. Ruby says to him one afternoon, deep into one of his more sincere monologues. His dog sits on his lap, and he’s talking as he half-watches a girl on stage auditioning. She has no music, but she’s been trying her best.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther’s eyes have been firmly set to the lunch Mr. Ruby made for him because he can’t truly decide which is more rude - watching or not watching. He grips his fork tighter and tries to reason out what the best response is. Luther never joined the military - Dad would have had a fit - but he knows exactly what it means to serve. “I don’t like to talk about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Understood. I took a tour of Germany myself, me and half of my brothers were drafted, from what I heard. Ten of us scattered around anywhere after my ma died, it was hard to keep track of them all, but when I came back, I said, I’m gonna find my people and I’m gonna stick to ‘em. Gonna take care of my own. You understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther nods. “I have six siblings. I was - ” He pauses, not entirely sure who was technically born first, Dad never cared about that, only about their rank, but he can’t say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Number One</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I was first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was that like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lonely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ruby says, softness bleeding into his voice for once, rounding off his sharp edges. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I lost them all, one way or another. I thought. I thought controlling them was taking care of them, but they hated me for it. Even before the apocalypse, I’d already lost them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The apocalypse?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Luther stutters, “It’s what - we - um, my brother. My brother, he died, and it was like the world ended. You know? Like an apocalypse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ruby nods and grips at Luther’s shoulder. “I know what you mean. But listen, it ain’t all bad being in charge. Some people need a gentle hand, someone lookin’ out for them in their best interests because they don’t always know what’s in their best interests.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That rings true enough for Luther, remembering the series of terrible decisions each of them made along the way that led to the destruction of the Umbrella Academy. A better leader would have been able to stop all of it, in their best interests. Five wouldn’t have disappeared and Klaus wouldn’t have developed his addiction and Ben would still be alive and Vanya wouldn’t have tried to kill them and and and.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they did need a Number One, it just should never have been Luther.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Ruby cuts into his train of thought with a nudge to his arm. “What d’you think of her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Her?” Luther stuffs his mouth, then looks up at her, studying her for the first time. She’s beautiful, has the same kind of shining black hair Allison used to have before she went to Hollywood. She shimmies forward and back, and Luther can see the sheen of sweat gathering at her temples under the hot stage lights. She’s probably been up there dancing for ages, at least as long as Luther’s been eating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. She’s a gift for the captain, get him and his men to stop steppin’ on my balls and start suckin’ em.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther chokes a little as he wheezes out, “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You like her, right?” Ruby prompts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, uh, yes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Attaboy. Anything for the Boys in Blue. Ask what you can do for your country, right?” He pats Luther on his shoulder and gets out of his chair to putter his way down to the stage. He shouts out, “Hey, sweetheart, come on down, let’s talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther blinks after him and all of the half-remembered history lessons he’s had dance in front of his eyes, with the same shimmer and feathers as any of Mr. Ruby’s girls until his eyes finally land on the prize - the reason the name Jack Ruby has been bouncing around in the back of Luther’s head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, maybe a year from now, maybe three, Jack Ruby will kill the man who killed Kennedy, but it won’t matter, because Luther will have skipped town by then. Luther wouldn’t put a stop to it anyway, that’s probably the way it’s supposed to be. Nobody in a fancy blue suit and idiotic animal mask has busted in through Luther’s door trying to kill him just for being here, so Luther figures his little ripple in the timeline isn’t causing any issues for Five’s deranged former employers. In the grand scheme of history, Luther doesn’t seem to matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Years ago, hell even just months ago, that would have cut Luther deep, it would have sent him into an impotent rage. Because he was chosen, he had a greater purpose. He had comic books and toys and an entry in the encyclopedia and a key to the city. He was not only a member of the Umbrella Academy, but Number One, and he’d saved the world five times over by the time he turned seventeen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Judgement Day came and went and found him wanting, his punishment obscurity. Or a second chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long for Thursday to become just another day of the week. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther rarely goes into the coat check because there’s barely enough room for him to turn around in there, but Mr. Murdock left his </span>
  <em>
    <span>special </span>
  </em>
  <span>smokes in his coat and Luther was sent to collect them with a wink. He doesn’t expect the door to shut behind him, so the hand not clutching the pack of cigarettes curls into a fist. He’s the wrong kind of guy to play childish games with - flimsy doors aren’t exactly a challenge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he turns to find a girl leaned against it, smiling, coquettish, decked out in a shimmering silver dress that reflects enough of the single overhead bulb’s light that she glows. Luther has made it a point not to get in the way of the girls, with the exception of Autumn who’d called him her savior after September even though he’s nothing of the sort. They’re all just here to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther already has to slump down to fit, but he curls in even further under her scrutiny. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hang limply at his sides. And he waits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, big guy,” she says eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been trying to get you alone for days to give you your present. Turns out you’re a hard man to pin down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t get you anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s still time left.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In trying to do the mental calculus required to respond to this, Luther’s body shuts down. She’s flirting, which is fine, but it should have come with a written warning five days in advance so Luther can prepare. “What’s your name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mi chiamano Mimi</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Luther rolls that around in his head, that’s a lot to remember. “You got a nickname?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Mimi, slick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Luther.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs at him; it sounds mostly kind. “I know.” She scoots forward, coats brushing at her arms in a way that makes Luther jealous, until she stands in front of him, her hand gently resting on his forearm, gently raising up into her toes to get closer to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he was Number One, he convinced himself he didn’t have time for any of this kind of stuff, but the second he saw Allison again at Dad’s funeral he knew that was a lie, that he’d just been waiting, lovesick and lovestupid, for someone he could never have. For someone he never should have wanted in the first place. He could have this. No time like the past.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther leans down and kisses her gently just as she kisses him, his mind emptying for a few blissful moments. His lips buzz after she moves to kiss the edge of his smile, the birthmark at his chin, down his neck. He rests a hand against her neck, thumb smoothing up at her jaw, but he can’t stop peeking down at it, at its menacing size, the way it looks like he’s poised to strangle her. He slowly moves it away, hiding it out of sight at her waist. Before Luther realizes what’s happening, she unbuttons the top few buttons of Luther’s shirt deftly, sliding a hand in and over his heart, her fingers shaking once she finds the hardened, wrinkled skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says quietly, but not quietly enough. Luther can hear her try to turn it into a warm noise as she smiles up at him, but it doesn’t work. Maybe she doesn’t want to do this, maybe she feels like she has to do this, because he’s one of Mr. Ruby’s guys. Or maybe she just didn’t know. It doesn’t matter to Luther, none of it matters to Luther but the blaring alarms ringing in his head, ugly claxons like the ones at the Academy that mobilized them to fight, only now he’s mobilized for flight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should - I should get back out there.” He starts shuffling around her before she has the chance to say anything, snagging his jacket off its hanger as he goes. Her light protests follow him out the door, which he breaks, snapping the cheap wood off of one of its hinges in his haste. He’ll offer to take the repairs out of his pay tomorrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slides on his coat before he crosses the empty floor to the small collection of men and the women that sit on their laps at one of the VIP booths at the corner. He hands off the pack of cigarettes to Mr. Murdock and falls back, slipping into the darkness at the edges of the club. Even after hours, with a select crowd, the place still manages to be loud and lively, hollering carols. It’s easy to be anonymous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Autumn sweeps by out from the bar with a tray laden with more glasses of champagne than seems safe, but she’s enviably swift and smooth on her feet. She lifts an eyebrow up at Luther, and asks, “Are you behaving?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart still pounds, she can probably tell, so he schools his face and lifts his eyebrow in return. “Are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs, which is a solid maybe, and circles around to deliver the drinks. He closes his eyes and counts slowly to twenty with deep inhales and exhales, just the way Pogo taught him when he used to wake up in shock and confusion, not recognizing the sight of his own body anymore. When he opens his eyes, Mr. Ruby is there, looking amused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, Mr. Ruby, how can I help you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got a little,” Mr. Ruby says, waggling a finger at his own neck until Luther starts swiping at his, pulling traces of Mimi’s red lipstick away on his fingers. “How was that for ya?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther shakes his head. Mr. Ruby nods over at a table near them, away from the rest of the men. The table has two glasses of champagne on it, Luther notices, when Mr. Ruby clicks the little lamp on for them as they sit down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it. It’s Christmas, huh?” Mr. Ruby raises his glass in a toast and Luther scrambles to join him. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>L’chaim.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, totally,” Luther says, and swallows down everything in the flute, savoring the way the bubbles tickle at his throat and wishing he had about six more to follow that up with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Ruby leans in across the table. “I need something from you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther looks to him seriously, his chin lifting, as though snapping into attention. “Whatever you need, Mr. Ruby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You heard of the brawls down at the livestock auction house on Cleary Street?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s a hard knock life in the pigpen. I hear the loser gets turned into bacon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Ruby smiles at the joke, but he seems to be of a singular mind. “You ever thought about fighting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hadn’t crossed Luther’s mind, to be frank. He imagined a ring and Diego “The Kraken” Hargreeves bouncing around, throwing gloved jabs at the air to seem menacing. That’s never been Luther’s scene - he fights to protect, not for sport.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll cut to the chase, Luther. I want to enter you as my guy.” Mr. Ruby watches him carefully, waiting for an answer Luther can’t give. Because Luther wants to say no, but he can’t say no to Mr. Ruby. Not after everything Mr. Ruby’s done for him, and also because Mr. Ruby doesn’t like to be told no. “Every take, I’ll make sure you get a generous cut.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You take good care of me, Mr. Ruby. I don’t need anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone wants more money, Luther, c’mon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What would I need it for?” He likes his room, he has enough clothes to last him through the week, he gets fed. He has no grand ambition - he sees what that does to men, and he wants no part of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I respect that, Luther. I really do.” Mr. Ruby nods, solemnly, patting Luther on his shoulder. Luther can’t help the way his face flushes with pride as Mr. Ruby says, “You’re a good man, you’re always looking out for the business, and I value that in a man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing, sir.” This is all he knows how to do, and he’s good at it. What used to be a duty has become a pleasure, because Mr. Ruby likes him for it, thanks him for it. His approval is a rare commodity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here’s what we’ll do. I gotta go down to these things anyway, y’know, I gotta make an appearance. And I need a body man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A body man?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Somebody with a body, who knows how to use it. Y’know what I mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Mr. Ruby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This means you stick with me, at all times, no more wasting your time by the door. I need you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luther, put a smile on your face, it’s a promotion,” Mr. Ruby laughs, so Luther cracks a smile. “My god, ya big galoot, you’re looking more pinched than Murdock’s face after a strong whiskey sour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No - I - thank you,” Luther says, flustered. “I really appreciate it. Thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s no problem. I take care of those who take care of me, you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any guy of mine is gonna look like a guy of mine,” Mr. Ruby says, peeling off Luther’s coat at his favorite tailor, just down the street on Commerce. Luther prepared himself days ago for whatever happens when they all finally see - he’s had a good thing going and it’ll be a shame to see it all crumble at the true sight of him. He’s tried to think up a few ways to dig himself out of the whole preemptively, a number of quick excuses and apologies he can make.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then he sheds his coat and his sweater and his shirt, and while the tailor and his assistant grow quiet, their faces dropping, likely rearranging in their mind the work they have ahead of them, Mr. Ruby looks delighted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at this. This is gold.” Mr. Ruby slaps at his bare back. “Any guy takes one look at you, and he shits his pants.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s the problem</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Luther thinks, but Mr. Ruby says it like that’s the solution.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should put this to good use, I’m tellin’ ya. People will go wild for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther holds still as he’s measured and remeasured and stuck with pins, and Mr. Ruby keeps looking over at him and laughing, not cruel but like he can’t believe his luck. Luther stares at himself in the mirror and tries to rework his perception of self to one mirroring Mr. Ruby’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of what made his strength and power a boon, Dad had always told him, was how secret it was. It’s a gift to be underestimated when times call for it, and nobody expects a tall, lanky thing to be able to lift and throw a car. But now he’s announcing for all the world what he is and what he can do, just with the outline of his body. It’s a different message he’s sending now, no subtext at all, his size proactively useful. He has the kind of body that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t fuck with me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and as Mr. Ruby’s body man, the protection expands - </span>
  <em>
    <span>and don’t fuck with Mr. Ruby</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’ll make him several shirts and pairs of pants, enough to throw away the loose, ill-fitting clothing from the thrift store that Mr. Ruby had haphazardly tailored for him back in October. They deliver just a day before the first fight Luther accompanies Mr. Ruby to. They’ve made sure there’s room to tuck a pistol at the back of his pants, the one that had been slipped to him with a murmur of </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t worry about it, it’s just in case.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fights are unlike anything Luther’s seen before - sure, the elements are familiar, sparring and an audience and the kind of desperation that only violence yields. The men in the straw- and dirt-floored ring aren’t fighting for their lives, like Luther’s used to, they’re not even fighting for honor and glory. They’re fighting because it’s ugly and it puts on a good show. It’s the kind of thing Dad would abhor, Luther can just hear the vicious lecture he’d give if he could see Luther now. It makes Luther all the more interested.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther sits next to Mr. Ruby high up in the audience, away from the drunker, louder collection of men ring-side. Ruby is more interested in speaking with the men who come one-by-one to talk with him, making deals no doubt, but that kind of stuff doesn’t concern Luther unless things get heated. He keeps part of his attention on Mr. Ruby and the other part on the fights below. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The men down there aren’t altogether competent, too feral to be accurate, landing blows on bare skin not with the sharp cracks that you hear in films, but ugly, dull thuds of reality. The longer Luther watches, the more he begins to understand the sick thrill that comes with exercising unhinged, animalistic violence, of acting in the moment, assuming there will be no consequences. There will be, of course, broken ribs and cracked jaws and bloody knuckles and bruised eyes, but each of the men fight with the unearned confidence of someone who can’t be beaten, until one of them eventually is. Luther could have a thing or two to say about their inefficiency in ending it, in the way each of them leave themselves vulnerable to defeat, but that’s not why he’s here. And maybe a small part of him likes the idea of keeping these men’s weaknesses a secret, as though it’ll some day become useful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Ruby determines at some point their business is concluded, before the fights are done, so they beat the crowds out of the stands and towards the door. A man blocks their way - tall, his face as red as his hair - and he lurches at Mr. Ruby, but Luther snaps his hand out and grabs him by the throat, using the guy’s own momentum to slam him down onto the ground. Luther drops with him, a knee resting on his throat hard enough to take the fight out of him but keep him conscious in case Luther will need to question him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s like second nature, Luther’s lips curling back as if bearing his teeth is a threat. He can hear Mr. Ruby muttering something, maybe telling Luther to ease up, but Luther can’t hear him over the pounding in his ears from the adrenaline. Luther feels crazed having been threatened, altogether glad he was there to watch out for Mr. Ruby and livid that he had to in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another voice from across the hall soon cuts clear through the noise in Luther’s head, “Is this the brute that killed Berger?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Ruby taps at Luther’s shoulder, so he stands, leaving the guy to gasp and clutch at his throat on the floor. He looks at the second man, who wears a suit as fine as any of Mr. Ruby’s, and tells him, “I didn’t kill anybody.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tsks, unconvinced, his eyes flicking between Luther and Mr. Ruby. “Then how come I found him floating face down in Trinity River?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t - ” Luther starts, his voice raising at the thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Ruby holds up a hand, cutting Luther off. “He came for one of my girls, but we let him off with a warning. Maybe he tripped.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other suited man, the boss of the guy Luther laid down from the looks of it, sounds unimpressed. More men filter out of the ring to come stand around him. “Tripped and crushed his larynx?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Berger had a lotta enemies, Hardcastle. You should tell your men they oughta stay in their lane.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s gonna be my lane, soon enough if I don’t see what’s owed to me start rolling in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the day he met Mr. Ruby in September, the drunk man and his threats on behalf of Johnny Hardcastle. The turf war he promised was coming. He knows he hadn’t killed that man, he’s too well trained for that, but he also knows he didn’t see what happened to him. He knows Isaacs and Slovi took care of him, which to Ruby could mean any number of things, but Luther has a pretty good idea right now what exactly that meant for Berger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hardcastle’s men step forward, so Luther shifts slightly, covering Mr. Ruby better, out of instinct, but his mind is racing. Ruby killed a man - or his men did - and somewhere in the back of Luther’s mind, he had to have known this kind of stuff happened behind the scenes. He knows what kind of outfit Mr. Ruby was running, he knows there are other men like Luther, big men who are handed guns with the understanding that </span>
  <em>
    <span>just in case</span>
  </em>
  <span> means </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything can be the case</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther hasn’t drawn any hard lines for Mr. Ruby, because whatever he’s seen hasn’t mattered to him - the drugs, the sex, the gambling. That’s part of Ruby’s legacy, and he’s going to do that whether Luther is there to stop it or not. Because ultimately he knows, he realizes it still doesn’t matter. This is history, pre-written - these men around him are already dead and there’s nothing Luther can do to stop it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll get your money,” Mr. Ruby says. “Call off your dogs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hardcastle does, waving a hand at his men, and they all leave the auction house, even the guy on the floor limping while leaning on another and sending a look to Luther that promises vengeance. It’s cute that the guy thinks he’ll be able to try. Luther waves at him, all fingers, as he goes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How was that,” Mr. Ruby says to Luther. “Exhilarating, ain’t it? Imagine if you could do that twice a week, and pull in 500 bucks a pop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther can’t deny he liked it, so he stays quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got men coming at me from all sides, sayin’ I owe them, and maybe I do. It’s tough times out there, for anyone, you know how it is. We could do a lot with this money.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s another way of protecting Mr. Ruby, of making sure what they’re building together is solid, unchallenged. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You should put this to good use</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mr. Ruby said, and there’s something enticing about that to Luther. To know he serves a purpose again, but this time it’s something he can see the outcome for, something he alone can do to make a difference. He’s not one of six, he’s not the last one left - he’s the only one who can do this. He’s necessary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luther says. “Sounds good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The audience shouts regardless of what’s happening - before, during, after the fights, just non-stop. It fills Luther’s ears like white noise, leaking into his brain so it empties out anything that might convince him this is a terrible idea. Not because he’ll lose - there’s no chance he loses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The audience goes quiet when Luther strips off his sweatshirt, revealing his torso, barely being covered by the thin white tank he wears. He anticipates the startled silence, so he’s not thrown off by it, not the way his opponent is. Before he’d stepped into the ring, Luther had learned this guy Mickey likes to take on the first timers. He’s a middle ranked fighter who punches down because it’s easy, when most new fighters pay their dues fighting other new guys. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, the scales seem tipped so heavily in Luther’s favor that it almost seems unfair of Luther to have stepped into the ring with him at all. Luther holds his hands up to be wrapped in white tape by Jacobs, another of Mr. Ruby’s men, as the crowd starts to warm back up their normal levels of volume, this time the chatter more curious and anxious for what’s about to happen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fight starts quicker than Luther thinks it will, no pomp and circumstance, only the roar of the crowd signaling it’s time. Mickey wastes no time, diving in straight for a few solid jabs to Luther’s torso, since he can’t comfortably reach Luther’s face without reaching really far, as short as he is. Luther barely feels them, takes a few steps to solidify his stance, then knocks Mickey out cold with a single hit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The audience starts hollering, but Luther can’t tell if it’s cheering or jeering. He looks over to find Mr. Ruby waiting ringside. He looks pissed as Luther approaches him. “You can’t let him go down in two hits, nobody’s gonna pay for a fight like that. They want the drama, the sparring. You gotta make a meal out of it, you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m hungry, sir,” Luther says, even if he thinks it’s a waste of time. They’re in this to make as much money as they can, which they can do by keeping the fights short - more fights are more money. But if showboating has value, then showboating Luther can do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By his fourth fight, they’re calling him King Kong, and he likes it - for the first time he feels in on it, for the first time he owns it. He beats at his chest like a warning to all that come to challenge him, and they go crazy for it. The men wilt and kneel before him, each drop of blood they let like an offering at the altar of a god.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks over to Mr. Ruby and waits for the signal to go in for the KO each night, timed to perfection so that everybody knows you can go toe to toe against Luther Hargreeves, you can even hold your ground for a while, but in the end, there’s no question who’s going to win. At least they’re all okay in the end, in whatever varying shades, and they have a badge of honor to wear, a veteran of King Kong’s perfect record.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd screams for him, stomping their feet and clapping, begging for him to go again, but there’s nobody left to fight. He stands tall and proud in the arena, his shoulders dropping back to put his chest on full display as he raises to his full height. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Each night they go, the money is good, tight but thick wads of cash handed to Mr. Ruby every night, who pockets it with pride. Some of it, somewhere, must be making its way to Luther, he’s really not sure. He knows he’s doing something right when he sees Johnny Hardcastle across the way, not eyeing Mr. Ruby but rather Luther and deciding it’s not worth it to engage. He’s another couple of fights away from clearing the last of Mr. Ruby’s debt to him, or so Luther hears, and that’ll be the end of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the night of his fiftieth fight - and his fiftieth victory - Mr. Ruby throws him a surprise party back at the cabaret, one already filled with booze and women and revelers by the time they get back from the auction house that Mr. Ruby must have already been so certain Luther was going to win that he set it all up ahead of time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shake this man’s hand, he’s makin’ me filthy fuckin’ rich,” Mr. Ruby announces before he introduces Luther to a gaggle of men Mr. Ruby calls his investors. “He wasn’t even gonna do it, the numbskull. But I know better for you, don’t I?” Luther laughs gamely and Mr. Ruby squeezes his arm and prompts, “Don’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, sir,” he admits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Attaboy.” Mr. Ruby claps him on his back, his hand sliding across as though he’d rather throw his arm around Luther’s shoulders if he could reach as he holds him tight to his side. “You’re my number one guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther grins down at him, straightening up to wear the mantle with better posture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside the Carousel, it’s loud and colorful and men are lining up to shake his hand - the closest thing to a ticker tape parade Luther has seen in his life. He’s the toast of the town, a hero receiving his hero’s welcome. It warms him to his core, like he’s seated at the hearth, his hands up to the fire. It has him thinking maybe he’s been a man out of time his whole life, and now he’s finally slotted into place, finally at home. Five didn’t curse him into purgatory, he sent Luther home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>----</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! If you need me, I'm <a href="https://putanauhere.tumblr.com">here</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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